Either Or
by isaytoodlepip
Summary: How quickly a threesome developes a third wheel...a HouseWilsonCuddy story.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Not**e: This is a threesome story featuring House, Wilson, and Cuddy. It is told from multiple points of view, cycling between those three characters and occasionally covering the same periods of time and actions. Hope that minimizes the confusion, and that you enjoy…

Seven months ago, House might have told himself that he'd never get used to this. He'd gone so long without physical intimacy, without that feeling of just being happier because of that body curled around you, without that excitement of lips and hands and teeth. But more than the newness of it all, or at least the sudden return, it was the _kinkiness_ that he hadn't expected to last the night, let alone seven months. Sure, there wasn't anything outrageously erotic about seeing his bathroom shelves covered with Cuddy's boxes of tampons or listening to her and Wilson bitch at him about laundry and sweat rings (except when it _was_ erotic, because it was them, and they were there with him, and that fact alone was enough, sometimes). Still, before this … situation had come along, House had had a pretty standard sex life. Prostitutes aside, the sex itself had been vanilla. Run of the mill. Punctuated with moments of _oh-my-god-what-was-that-do-it-again-please_, but those moments had tapered off after the infarction because simple was sometimes just too much to hope for. So when he'd fallen into bed with both Wilson and Cuddy, he might have said that there was no way he'd get used to it. That he wouldn't even need to get used to it. That they couldn't possibly want to do it again.

But then they did. A lot. Sometimes twice a night. And he'd always had a problem distinguishing between habitual behavior and need.

He would fall asleep between them, face buried in Cuddy's shoulder, Wilson's arm draped around his hips, so warm and so missed in its absence, or even the threat of its absence, that he had no trouble believing that he was happy. It wasn't until he stopped waking up between them that he realized how fucked he truly was.

He thinks he shocked them, that first night. No, he knows he shocked them. He's just not sure why. Did they expect him to take turns with Wilson, watching it all with a critical eye and a ready retort until it was time for him to step up and pound Cuddy into the mattress? Did they think he'd be directing the whole thing, as commanding in one setting as he was in others? Defying rules of decorum and laws of physics, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Did they think those rumors about him and Wilson meant something more and that Cuddy being there at all was just an excuse? A beard? House doesn't know. All he remembers about that night, apart from every single flash of flesh, every sound, the smell of them and the slick of sweat, was being terrified, and the way they dealt with him, like he was a skittish colt. Pulled onto the bed, pushed into position, and he just let himself be there, between them. He let them manipulate him in all the ways they'd always wished they could.

In the morning, he heard Cuddy whisper, "I don't know why we're surprised. He always has to be the center of _everything_." He felt so fucking good. _Don't get used to this_.

When it kept happening, House expected the mechanics to change. He teased Wilson about going gay for him. He didn't say anything to Cuddy. But they never wanted him anywhere but between them. He wished he felt powerful, like he was the one holding together this one good thing. But he didn't. And he didn't feel powerful when he'd woken up one night, a month ago, to see them rutting quietly on the bedroom floor, stopping mid-gasp and looking at him with a guilt too heavy for him. He could have told himself that it was just the three of them, together in a room, but the looks on their faces told him. He wasn't supposed to be a part of this. _This_ – it was just Lisa and James. They could hold that up on their own. And they wanted to. Because they could never be those people when they were with him. At least, House thought that explained why they seemed to hoard their first names, locking them in whispered conversations that stopped when he entered the room. It had been that way since the beginning. He didn't mind not being Greg. But he hated that Wilson was still _James_, and Cuddy was still _Lisa_, for each other. That was the first night House ever thought his bedroom was simply too crowded.

Now, it's been seven months. House is sitting in his office, trying to understand how suddenly a threesome could have a third wheel. It didn't make sense. Back in the beginning, when it had become clear that it wasn't just a thing to do when drunk and bored and lonely, Cuddy had come to them in near tears.

"I can't do this!" she shrieked, even when the look on her face so clearly said, _I need to keep doing this_. "You two go on like you always have, laughing and having lunch and being…you, and I'm just your boss until I go home with you and I'm not…I'm…I'm still the girl beating at the door, trying to get into a boys' club."

It was a reasonable concern. House imagined it always was, in these situations. Someone always felt expendable. He imagined at the time that they would fight over him. Because the way he saw it, he'd wanted Cuddy for the longest. And he'd loved Wilson for the longest. And those were the pairs that made sense. Cuddy and Wilson, on their own? What would they talk about? What did they have in common, except him?

"House, show her how much we need breasts," Wilson had joked. That night, it was enough.

Now, it wasn't a joke. And it wasn't ending the way he thought it would. Despite his certainty that this wouldn't last, and that he didn't deserve it to, he couldn't help hoping that, when things broke open, he'd still have one of them to go home to. Because he was their center.

But now, every morning he woke up, he'd be alone on his side of the bed, and they'd be curled around each other, keeping all that warmth to themselves.

Wilson had told him once, "You think too much, except when you're in love. Then you're like some stupid kid trying to hold on to a toy he's too young to play with."

But that was never House's problem. He couldn't _stop_ thinking. He'd imagine the likely repercussions of every action, every word. And then, he'd do and say whatever the hell he felt like anyway. It kept him from being surprised, most of the time. But he couldn't always predict how people would react to him. And he couldn't always predict what it was he would want, in the end.

There were only a few ways he saw this thing going. He could ignore the fact that Wilson and Cuddy didn't want him in their (_his_) bed any more, get maybe a month more of great sex and then a lifetime supply of free lunches and blackmail threats to get out of clinic duty, all thanks to his friend Guilt. Or he could confront them, give them his blessing, and still reap the benefits of guilt, with a side order of Wilson and Cuddy thinking he needed to be put on suicide watch because clearly the world was coming to an end. Or he could try to drive them apart or try to make himself enough for them or try anything anything _anything_ to keep them from letting him go. Or he could be as big a bastard as he knew how, pushing them away, pushing them towards each other, letting them feel lucky they escaped, some regret that things didn't work out between the three of them, maybe a bit sad that House was alone again, but no reason for guilt and no cause to worry.

None of these choices would get him what he wants. And only one would make Wilson and Cuddy happy.

Like he'd ever give them that.

"So. I've been sleeping with Wilson and Cuddy for the past seven months."

"Which one of them are you cheating on?" Stacy asked, without a blink (he guessed; hard to read facial expressions over the phone) and without a pause. He pretended that part of him didn't still…burn, just hearing her voice.

"We all cheat on each other at the same time. Three-ways are just so _efficient_."

"Either you're calling to brag or you're calling for help, and since I didn't hear from you seven months ago when this all started, I'm assuming it's the latter. Why don't you just get one of your people to buy Lisa some flowers and Wilson a tie and leave me alone?"

"I'm between people at the moment."

"Apparently."

"Nice. Listen, Wilson and Cuddy are forming an alliance and I think I'm going to be voted out in the next tribal council. I've decided I should bribe one of them with an immunity idol. Or start chucking spears and drag the survivor back to my hut. Either / or."

"Did you seriously expect me to give _you_ relationship advice?"

"There's only one other person I'd ever bother _asking_ and I can't talk to him at the moment."

"Well. If you're trying to decide which of them you want to fight for, I think you have your answer."

He's pretty sure that whole conversation was a mistake, but it was better than calling Cameron at BFE University or wherever the hell she is and asking her why he's always left behind. Maybe that would have got him a home-made sympathy card, some chocolate chip cookies and pity sex, but there's only so much glitter one man can stand.

As he sits in his office, watching the clock and knowing that Wilson will stop by for lunch any minute because he's still pretending that everything isn't going to hell, House does some quick mental calculations. He needs Wilson. He wants Cuddy. Neither of them would choose House over the other (yet). House would settle for being _just friends_ with both of them, but he can't do that if they are seeing each other. Without him.

Wilson shows up before he finds a solution.

Later that day, House slips on the slick tile in the bathroom. He catches himself before he falls. He wonders if some life-threatening injury would make him seem needy enough to pull Wilson to his side for good. After he realizes that he'd been thinking of the advantages of broken bones, bike accidents, infarctions and ODs, he decides that maybe the best thing he can do is just get the fuck out of town for a while. He leaves a note saying, "You kids have fun" on his desk. He leaves his cell phone and pager next to it. He leaves New Jersey and hopes that, for every mile he rides, one day of the past seven months will disappear forever. And maybe if he keeps riding, 47 years will melt away and he can just start over. Or not. Either / or.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson notices the disconnect weeks before Cuddy comes to them complaining about roles and intimacy and being left out or, even worse, being left behind. And it's not the lunches with House, or the laughter with House, or the lounging in front of the TV with House, all without _her_, that makes it obvious for him. Because when he started this whole thing (and he can't deny that it was him that started it), he knew there was no way she could catch up with them, and he's sure she did as well. He'd accepted that he'd have to do a bit of wooing on the side, and he even envied House for having already won that battle with both of them years ago. Wilson thought, if everything fit in the darkness of House's bedroom, then that was more than half the work done. Romance, or whatever Cuddy was looking for, was easy. Romance, he could do.

But not everything fit.

He didn't realize he was glaring at her until she glared back. Didn't realize he was taunting. Didn't realize it was a contest. At first, he could only stare at the images beneath him. Run his fingers along House's side, dip down to graze the softness of her breast but always keep moving, back to House. Watch the way House buried his face in her shoulder, her lush dark hair. Watch the way House would rarely kiss, only kiss back. Lean forward to touch his back with lips, nose, forehead, and hear the keening and low-frequency growls, muffled by hair and pillows and teeth clamped on lips. It was all about House, as it should have been, until it wasn't. Until he found himself glaring at Cuddy, as she glared back. And they both picked up the pace and pulled House this way and that, and it was as if he disappeared. House was gone, just a space to be fought over, just a warmth to be coveted, and still there was a disconnect between Wilson and Cuddy. A House-shaped hole.

Cuddy blinked first, that night. And somehow it was decided that they'd always keep House between them. They had to. They had to keep fighting until someone won.

Wilson tried not to let that dynamic seep into the other aspects of this new relationship. He cut back on the in-jokes, when the three of them sat on House's couch, watching TV. He said things that would make her smile, even if he knew House was rolling his eyes, and took her side on issues of décor and dining. But then she came to them, threatening to call it off if they didn't offer her more permanence, and he realized she was playing dirty. It was easy to call her Lisa, then. Easy to whisper in her ears, take her out to galleries and plays and concerts. He was good at holding onto the things he wanted, until he stopped caring enough to keep them.

Everything changed, like it always did. One night, nearly five months into this _thing_ between them, somebody broke the rules. But then, House never put much stock in rules, did he?

No matter how good he was at reading people, House was a lousy poker player as far as Wilson was concerned. The man simply had too many tells. Shifty eyes. Downcast eyes. A slight widening of eyes, and not in surprise. It was as if he was asking, "_Well?_ What are you gonna do about it?" There was the pumping of his fist when he was uncomfortable about what he was about to do or say or hear, the drawn-out syllables when he admitted a truth he'd wanted to keep secret. Fingers splayed when he was in pain, because clenched fists were too obvious. Small upturn of the lip when he didn't want to know you'd made him want to laugh. Poker face when he gave you the truth and wanted to see if you believed him. Full of tells, and Wilson knew most of them. So he knew that when House caught Cuddy's face with a shaky hand and kissed her eyelids and smiled into her cheek, he was perhaps the happiest he'd ever been. It didn't matter that maybe, in House's mind, the fact that Wilson was on top of him, inside of him, all around him and warm, was a large part of that happiness. He only saw the flush of triumph on Cuddy's face as she kissed House back, and he felt as if he was losing something.

And he wasn't ready for that.

That was the first night he kissed Lisa. Pushed into House hard enough that he groaned and buried his face into the pillow to keep from calling out, and then Wilson swooped in and caught Cuddy's lips, which had been open in surprise, with his own.

Just like the first time, it felt like House had disappeared, but now James was anchored to Lisa so the loss was barely noticeable.

Two days later, James fucked Lisa in her office. Then he went and found House, let him steal most of his lunch, and wondered exactly which one of them he was fighting now, and whom he was fighting for.

James was skilled in the art of the affair, but this time, it was different. There was all of the illicit thrill, the rush of adrenaline as he dragged Lisa off to hidden corners, the simple elation of having a second human being to make love to. But there was none of the guilt. Not really. There was even some smugness over the fact that he was getting away with it, that House didn't know. There was a hint of superiority when Lisa made sounds she never did when it was House thrusting into her, and even better, even better was when it was the three of them again, and they silently fought over House's body, but this time with playfulness. This time, it finally wasn't all about House.

The guilt didn't come until House caught them together on the floor of the bedroom, but faced with the shock in House's eyes, Wilson decided that he'd ignore all the man's tells. House had to have known this would happen.

Lisa said she felt awful. She said they couldn't let House go. She said, without House, everything would collapse. Wilson hated House for that, for just a moment, and then he agreed, because Lisa was upset and, really, wasn't what they had enough?

He couldn't stop feeling as if he'd lost something. He'd lost one of them. When Cuddy and House were asleep, he'd try to figure out which one of them was slipping away from him, which one he couldn't afford to let go. He thought about Cuddy, her beautiful body. Her professional dedication. Her blue eyes (not as blue as House's). Her sharp humor (not as sharp as House's). He thought about House and all the tells he'd been showing since he caught them, a month ago. Fingers splayed, eyes downcast, never kissing, not even kissing _back_. Wilson thought about House disappearing and went into a blind panic, and when he slept, he moved to the only source of comfort in their bed. And when he woke, he'd curse himself for finding his arms wrapped around her, and House, alone, left behind.


	3. Chapter 3

"What's up?" he asked, and she was glad she'd decided to call him to her office, glad for the uncertainty in his eyes and voice, the way he could never be sure if he was her lover or her employee. House had never noticed the boundaries, even before the three of them collectively decided to screw boundaries and screw each other. But Wilson had always kept up the pretense of being a good boy.

"Shut the door," she said, and watched with smug satisfaction as he jumped to obey, one hand on the doorknob, the other rubbing his neck. _Does he do that to look cute? To put forth that little boy lie? Or do I really make him that tense?_ she wondered.

"What's up?" he asked again, and she knew that the desk between them is what was making his posture so straight.

She sat down, motioning for him to do the same, and as she watched him fold himself into the chair, adjust his tie, cross his legs and uncross them and finally come to rest, she had to remind herself of why she wanted him there. Not because she _wants_ him (though she does). She knew it's going against the rules she set for herself when she began this thing, but she'd chosen her office for this conversation because she knew it'd give her the confidence to issue a reprimand she wasn't so sure she had the authority to give.

She, House and Wilson had been sleeping together for five months, and two nights ago was the first time Wilson had kissed her. That wasn't the problem. In fact, she'd been wanting him to for ages, to feel that Cupid's bow, a face not so sharp as House's against her lips, but he'd seemed unwilling and she didn't want to push. The problem was…House. She let herself forget that Wilson was sitting across from her, waiting for her to speak. She closed her eyes, remembered the feel of House's smile against her face, the rapid puffs of air as he fought to catch his breath, and how warm he felt, and how warm she felt, with both of their weights against her. She smiled at that, but made herself remember what had happened next. A swift movement that she couldn't see coming, and then House groaning in pain, tearing himself away from her to hide his head. She was glad he could never see that fierceness in Wilson's eyes as he pushed harder and harder and possessively caught her lips. It felt good, but it was ugly. She didn't want that. And Wilson was usually good with rules.

"The other night," she finally said, and noticed how he relaxed, now that he knew this wasn't anything business-related. "Were you trying to punish him, or just out to prove a point?"

"What? I…that's not, I-I-," he stammered, and she wished again that she was better at reading him. With House, she'd accepted that she'd be wrong just as often as she was right, but Wilson was a different animal. Even five months into their relationship, she couldn't always tell the difference between guilt and embarrassment. She didn't even know if he felt the difference, either.

"Because if you want to kiss me, just kiss me," she pushed on. "I don't care what the logistics have been. It's still the _three_ of us in bed at night, and I won't have you fighting for something that you already have."

There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, so she smirked at him, sure he didn't mind that she had the upper hand. She stood, walked around her desk to see him to the door, but he twisted out of the grip she had on his arm and backed her against the wall before she could do more than blink in surprise.

"You sure I already have it, Lisa?" he murmured, his voice at a register lower than she'd ever heard it, and suddenly she didn't care if anyone could see them, and suddenly she was on the couch with him above her (_please, don't let anyone see us_) and they only pushed and ripped and unzipped a few inches of fabric before they were anchored to each other and swallowing any noises of shock they might have made. She whispered _James_ and it was over too soon, and it was nothing like how it was when it was the three of them, and nothing like how it was that night years ago, when it had just been her and House. But it still felt good, as did the goofy smile on Wilson's face when he put himself back together and walked off to have lunch with House. She cleaned herself up in the bathroom and stepped out into the small courtyard attached to her office. More than anything, she wanted to call House, just to hear his voice, but this had been enough indiscretion for one day, and she had the whole night to be with both of them again.

She never mentioned the quickies with Wilson to House. She wasn't trying to hide anything from him, but she didn't want to start some pissing contest either. She knew that much about House. He'd ask who was better. He'd ask how often they did it. He'd ask why she never let _him_ fuck her in the hospital, or at least watch. He'd be dragging her off to every empty exam room in the building, and, unlike Wilson, he had no discretion. It was easier to keep it an open secret, just like the grope fests House and Wilson engaged in on the couch (they called it _wrestling_). Just like the teenage make-out session she had with House in the bathroom, mouths foamy with toothpaste and eyes gummy with sleep, on the mornings when he actually woke up at a decent hour. She assumed everyone knew about these one-on-one moments, that everyone was fine with it. Until House woke up to the sight of her and Wilson, writhing on the floor, and she'd seen the look in his eyes, and, more importantly, the look in Wilson's.

Needless to say, the next meeting between them in her office did not end like the last.

"Did you…did you think this was an _affair_?" she hissed, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. House had warned her about this tell. He was getting ready to lie, and House always said that if Wilson lied, he thought he was doing it _for your own good_. Deciding that if she let him open his mouth, he'd blow this whole thing to hell, she allowed herself, and him, an out. "We can't keep doing this, without him. I'm not pushing him out. It's not even a consideration," she announced, trying to make it clear that she'd never choose Wilson over House. She'd rather lose them both than make that choice. He seemed to deflate a bit, and her mouth twisted into a frown as she imagined how easy it would be to choose House over Wilson. As she remembered that she often had, in the past.

"Of course," he said, as if it had never crossed his mind.

She thought things were getting back to normal. Most mornings, she'd wake up with Wilson's arms around her, and she though, _this is good. Normal. Out in the open, for all three of us to see. No secrets_. At night, she'd reach for House's arm, sling it around her shoulder, burrow into his side as they watched TV or read whichever journal had come in the mail. The sex tapered off, and when they did make love, it was like it had always been. She wondered if Wilson was trying to reassure House that nothing had changed, or if he was really content with keeping House between them. Or if he was angry she had stopped their _affair_ and was trying to shove it in her face. But she let things be, because having both of their weights against her had always been what she liked best. That, and House's kisses, which were getting harder and harder to find.

The next time, Wilson came into her office without being summoned. "He took off," he murmured, flinging himself onto that couch where she had unwittingly let things break open, let the fabric tear.


	4. Chapter 4

He rolled over onto his stomach, ignoring the sound of the blonde zipping up her boots and collecting her gauche earrings from the bedside table. Ignoring her quieter friend, as the smell of her overpowering floral perfume left tracks of her paces as she searched for the sweater House had thrown over their shoulders, into the darkness of the hotel room. A click of heels let him know the blonde (Kara?) was heading towards the door, and he wasn't surprised that she didn't say goodbye. He _was_ surprised when the other one ran her finger tips up his sweaty back, leaned in to kiss his cheek and simply said, "Thanks."

He should have guessed she was a closet lesbian.

Once they were gone, he threw off the top bed sheet, wishing he had the energy to get up and shower. Instead, he stretched out his limbs and tried to tell himself that the deep sense of dissatisfaction with the whole encounter was simply a matter of gender. _You've gotten used to taking it up the ass_, he diagnosed. It was purely a lack of physical fulfillment. It had nothing to do with… Flashes of tackling Wilson for the remote control, dipping his hands into Wilson's pockets in his search even though he knew the thing was shoved between the couch cushions, of spitting on Cuddy's hand as she reached for the faucet, just so she'd squawk and slap him or kiss him or steal his toothbrush and promise to do lewd and disgusting and thrilling things with it, all these images reminded him of why he was trying to make it harder and harder for himself to go back to Princeton.

Betty and Veronica had seemed like an ideal distraction, but more importantly, they were as good a variable as any to test a hypothesis. He didn't care if it was bad science. It was free sex, and it gave him the chance to approach this problem in a way that wouldn't leave him feeling like an emo pussy on some juvenile sulk fest or a middle-aged man in the midst of an identity crisis. But now, he couldn't remember what question he'd set out to answer, only the questions he'd been asking himself since he reached Boston.

Was it just being part of a threesome that had made him so disgustingly happy these past seven months? Was it just Cuddy's amazing body (and Veronica had the measurements, if not the flexibility)? Was it just the regular stimulation of the prostate (a.k.a. The Gay Factor)?

Frustrated that this was the best he could come up with, House forced himself to sit up and head towards the shower. He didn't know why he was so focused on _his_ motivations. Surely he should be trying to figure out why Wilson and Cuddy had suddenly paired off and squeezed him out. As he ran his fingers through the stream of water, checking the temperature, House snorted in disgust over his surprise. Apart from the fact that he still couldn't see what Wilson and Cuddy had in common (except for him), there was an obvious answer as to why they were shutting him out. _Just look in the mirror, buddy. Still the same guy who'll skip town, down a butt-load of pills, fuck the first willing bodies he finds, and try to justify it under the name of scientific curiosity and the oh-so-mature _They Did It First.

If he was any sort of functional human being, he'd have left himself years ago.

Snorting again at his own stupidity, House stepped into the shower. He tried not to think. It was easier to just stop breathing, so he did. Filling his lungs with air, he thrust his face into the shower stream, closing his eyes tight enough that blooms of color illuminated the darkness and the pressure made his whole face feel heavy. Finally blinking his eyes open, he tracked the floaters in his vision, tiny dead cells in his vitreous humor. Casualties to his need for self-destruction, Wilson would say. Wilson was good at ignoring medical fact in order to make a point. But all this thinking about Wilson just made House even more tired, and he rested his forehead against the cool tile, staring at the absence of the dozens of bottles of shampoos, conditioners and body washes that lined the rim of his (_their_) tub back home. He stared at the absence of his life with two people he reluctantly loved, and wondered again why he'd risked this in the first place. When Stacy left, she'd taken something that he'd never get back. With Cuddy and Wilson leaving, he wondered if there would be anything left for him except stupid fucking patients and stupid fucking puzzles and stupid fucking pills and stupid fucking pain. Maybe once, maybe even just a year ago, that would have been enough for him. Hell, more than a few people would tell him that it was more than he deserved. And, if asked, he'd have to agree with them. Not because _he_ was somehow unworthy of a better life. It was just that he'd never thought anyone _deserved_ anything. People had no right to expect happiness. It was that expectation that made so many people assholes.

When had he become such an asshole?

_About two minutes after you were born_, Wilson would say. _Took him a whole two minutes?_ Cuddy would ask in mock-surprise.

House slammed his fist into the wall, then turned off the water.

Two hours later, he was driving his bike back to Jersey. His hand ached, probably fractured, but his mind was clear. No. It wasn't. It was a whiteboard of treatment options. He kept trying to erase the five stages of death. _That's not treatment_, he hissed at himself. _That's a DNR_. He was no closer to an answer by the time he reached his (_their_) apartment. He knew they'd both be at work, and he thought that they might have moved out their things in the four days he'd been gone, but walking inside and seeing the kitchen still full of Wilson's fancy knives and Cuddy's organic food, he knew they were still living there, waiting for his return. Just as he knew he didn't want to hang around, living in their absence. He left, got back onto his bike, and headed towards Cuddy's house.

She'd never sold the place, even after effectively moving in with him two months into the relationship. Ever few weeks, she'd drop hints about the three of them relocating to her bigger, brighter, _girlier_ house, but they'd never summoned up the energy to do more than talk of the evils of lilac and the hell of moving pianos. House knew that she'd sometimes spend her weekend afternoons alone in her house, when all the testosterone got to her. As he fished out his spare key, he wondered if she and Wilson had been coming here all along, when being with _him_ was a bit too much to bear.

Letting himself in, he checked the freezer to see if there was any ice for his hand, but it had been unplugged. The air in the house was stale, thick and warm but still somehow comforting. Fingers aching, along with everything else aching, he made his way back to her bedroom and collapsed on the bed. There was something different about the room. Picture frames. On dressers and bedside tables and walls, there were pictures of the three of them, together or in pairs or on their own. Smiling, laughing, and sometimes glaring, but more surprising was the date some of them had been taken. This was a visual history going back _years_. Sometimes, House forgot how sentimental Cuddy could be. And he wished he didn't make her feel the need to hide it from them.

Not that she'd have to. Anymore.

House ordered some food. He flipped through some photo albums he found tucked into her bookcase. He threw his clothes into the washing machine, glad it was still hooked up. And later, as he tried to fall asleep, he thought of all the things he wanted, and how it was impossible for him to just _take_ them. He thought of how hard it would be to just sit down with them and tell them the truth and ask that they tell the truth in return. He thought of how much work it would take for them to hold this thing together. And he thought of the many ways things could fall apart. Maybe they'd all be alone again. Wilson, off in search of another wife. Cuddy, off in search of another sperm donor. Him, off in search of a few good hookers that worked as a double act.

Or maybe Cuddy would be the fourth Mrs. Wilson. She'd order him to come to the wedding and in the next breath order him to do his clinic duty and, in the next, order him to hire a new set of fellows and let them stick around for more than a month or two. And Wilson would butter him up with season tickets and a dozen lunches before getting up the nerve to ask that he stand as best man. And he'd agree to it all, after a great deal of bitching and a great deal of pouting and a great deal of Vicodin, and then he'd be off in search of a few good hookers that worked as a double act.

And Wilson would cheat on Cuddy, or Cuddy would ignore Wilson because her hospital means more to her, and one of them, or both, would come to him for comfort, and try to convince themselves that they chose the wrong person, and he'd try to convince himself that having just one of them, either one, was better than having no one. And then things would fall apart, because it just wasn't enough.

Or maybe House was wrong. Maybe they'd work through it and things would go back to normal and it would be easy and forever. Maybe they'd all decide to just be friends and it wouldn't hurt for more than a day or two.

Like maybe the Ketamine would have worked, like maybe removing the clot in his leg would have worked, like maybe, like maybe, like maybe.

Though it wasn't out of his hands, it also wasn't his choice. All he could do was tell the truth, take a step back, and make _them_ decide if he, this, was worth saving.

The next morning, he went back to work. Looking at the stack of applications on his desk, the few requests for consults that had accumulated in his absence, House's profound apathy gave him an idea of just how big his step back needed to be.

Cuddy was the first to find him, which he hadn't expected, given the fact that Wilson was just next door.

She looked relieved to see him. Happy. Pissed off, but happy.

"I fucked someone else," he said, for once proud of himself that he wasn't taking great pleasure in shitting all over someone's good mood.

"Two someone elses, actually," he continued. "I didn't enjoy myself. I didn't do it to hurt you, or Wilson. I don't think I did it to hurt myself, but I think I did manage to break my hand. Whatever you decide to do…you both do whatever you have to do. This department is fucked. None of these applicants are good enough, but even if they were, I wouldn't care. Whatever you decide to do, I don't think I want to work here at the moment. So either put me on leave, or consider this my notice. In the meantime, I stayed at your place last night. If you want me to come home, to both of you, that's fine. If you just want me out, that's your call. I've got my phone, if you want to talk to me. Either as my boss, or…just call, if we need to talk. I'm going down to the clinic to have my hand taped and then I'm going back to your place."

He could see she was going to cry, could hear her swallowing over that lump in her throat as he moved past her towards the door. He didn't need to convince himself, he just leaned down and brushed his lips against her temple and breathed out, "I love you." And then he left.

All things being equal, he should have stopped in at Wilson's office and given him the same spiel, hopefully without the hesitation and without the pauses to regain composure. But the hurt in Cuddy's eyes had been as draining as he'd imagined it would be, and he decided it'd be better to just call Wilson in a few hours, when he was ready.

All things being equal, Wilson was the one to walk into his exam room in the clinic.

Eyes widened with surprise, until they caught sight of the bruised hand House was cradling against his chest, and then it was hands-on-hips predictability with a chaser of sighs and rolled eyes.

"You ever get the feeling of déjà vu?" he asked, wheeling his stool over to the table and pulling House's hand closer.

"Didn't you just ask me that?" House replied automatically.

"Were you detoxing again?" Wilson asked, probing his fingers gently before reaching for the file and ordering a set of films.

"You could say that."

"And what would _you_ say?"

'That I drove to Boston and got wasted in a cheesy _Cheers_ knock-off, had a disappointing threesome with two paralegals, and missed you both so much that I punched a wall."

The file twisted in Wilson's grip.

"And would you be telling the truth?" he asked.

"I thought you could always tell."

Wilson wouldn't look at him. House wasn't sure if he wanted him to. He wasn't sure if Wilson even wanted an apology, a _mea culpa_, a physical supplication, the kiss, the words. The gesture of sacrifices he was pretty sure he'd never make. All House knew was that he couldn't offer Wilson things like reasons and apologies without demanding them back, because Wilson owed him just as much. So he stood up, took his file from Wilson's grasp, and walked to the door without touching him, even though he wanted to, _so wanted_ to grab him and push him and punish them both.

"I've already talked to Cuddy. About us. Me." And then, House left the hospital, deciding that his hand would be just as broken the next morning, just like everything else, and, maybe like everything else, he could try to fix it then.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson could see that she'd been crying. He could see that she was hurt, and anyone could see that she was mad as hell. But it didn't matter. He had to find out what House had said to her and then speak to him himself, figure out what it was he wanted, what they _both_ wanted, and then, if there was anything left to salvage, he'd be there for her. He was beginning to think that he'd been approaching this relationship from the wrong angle all along. It couldn't be a _one for you, one for you, and one for me_ equation. There had to be priorities. At that moment, House was his priority. Whatever Cuddy was feeling, whatever she wanted or needed from him, it would have to wait.

"What do you want to do?"

"To be honest, at this moment, I want to fire his ass."

"You know you can't do that."

"Yes."

"Yes as in he's the best doctor in this hospital and you can't afford to lose that resource, or yes as in you know it'd totally wreck him?"

"Does it really matter?"

"I need to talk to him."

"Good luck with that. He's at my place. You'll have to knock down the door, because he's not answering his phone."

Cuddy had reported fragments of her conversation with House. The phrase, "didn't do it to hurt you," stood out most, and if there was a pang of jealousy and regret when she told him that House had kissed her, said he loved her, Wilson pushed it aside and focused on the puzzle, just as he pushed aside his bitter amusement that, when in doubt, he'd reverted to the age old question: What Would House Do?

_I didn't do it to hurt you_. How many times during his many marriages had House sniffed out his infidelity, mocked him for his weakness, and then adamantly insisted that the worst thing Wilson could do was confess. _You just want to martyr yourself because it'll make _you_ feel better. You don't give a damn about what it's going to do to her, or to whichever naughty nurse or grieving widow you've managed to get your claws on._ Wilson wasn't sure if House had ever cheated on Stacy, but he did know that he'd cheated on other women he'd briefly dated in the years before and after that hallmark relationship. And, every time House would mention it, Wilson would be disgusted. Because House never seemed to feel guilty about it. Regretful. Ashamed. Because…because it'd never been with _him_.

So maybe House hadn't slept with those women to hurt Cuddy and him, but he sure as hell admitted to it in order to inflict the maximum amount of pain. The bastard knew what he was doing. Now if only he could clue Wilson in.

"I thought you said you were going to answer your phone." That was the best opening line Wilson could come up with, and he'd sat in his car, parked outside of Cuddy's house, for an embarrassing amount of time, trying to find just those words.

"I lied," House shrugged, or at least, that's what Wilson thought he was trying to do. House's body language was one Wilson couldn't understand, with the cane in the left hand. The hand that wasn't broken and purpling and still untreated.

"Just like you lied when you said you were resigning?" Wilson challenged, walking into the living room but too uncomfortable to sit.

"Nice way to sort out her priorities, huh? And I never _said_ I was resigning. I said I wanted some time off, and if she can't give it to me then she can _take this job and shove it_," House crooned, before dropping the act. "It's not like I was planning on taking a case any time soon, and I'd rather sit on my ass at home than sit on it in my office."

"Four days whoring in Boston wasn't enough of a break for you?"

"It was more like three days drinking in Boston and one hour of whoring, and no, it wasn't enough," House answered, leaning against the back of chair and bouncing the tip of his cane against the floor.

"So you up and threaten to quit."

"Look, if you're really here to nag at me about work, I'm going to turn on the TV and drown you out, which will just lead to _more_ nagging and it'll be a whole big thing, so can we cut to the chase?"

And that was what Wilson had been waiting for – that retreat towards sarcasm, towards the predictability of constants, towards _diagnosis_. For once, he didn't trust himself to leave House with that. He didn't trust himself to outline all the fine points of House's psyche like the man was incapable of recognizing his own intentions, his own emotions. For once, he was going to make _House_ do all the psychoanalyzing.

"What is it you need from me, House? What do you want to get out of this? Obviously, anonymous sex in a hotel room isn't doing it for, but you never...why don't you just _tell_ me what you want? Because I can't guess with you. Not with you. And you haven't changed at _all_. You still treat us the same way you've always treated us, except in the bedroom where you never _say anything_. Just…say something!"

"What do you think this is, a bartering session?" House snapped, pushing away from the chair and into Wilson's face, leaving the cane behind as if to say _all gloves are off_. "We're all supposed to fill in each other's gaps, make up for individual shortcomings by pooling our resources? You pick up my slack in the emotional availability department by _being there_ for Cuddy, even if the only way you can do it is by seducing her in the janitor's closet and sending flowers after the fact? You compensate for Cuddy's lack of a penis by having one? Is that what this thing is for you?"

Wilson couldn't answer, could only wish that House wasn't right, could only imagine what House and Cuddy gave each other to make up for something absent in Wilson. And House just kept talking.

"Maybe it wasn't about being there for her at all. Maybe you just couldn't stand the fact that _I had her first_, without you. Well, now we've both done her. That should help make things all nice and _equal_ for you, just like you want them to be. Like you nee – "

And then Wilson shut House up, pushing at his shoulders to knock him off balance, then grabbing at his shirt and pulling him against him, their teeth knocking hard enough to cause both men to wince and recoil, but then Wilson's tongue was in his mouth because he knew, _knew_, that it was the only way to get House to shut the fuck _up_.

That, and growling, "It still isn't _equal_, is it?"

He didn't have to explain himself. House's hand, the one not clinging to his shoulder for balance, broken bones be damned, flew to the buckle of Wilson's belt and was grasping him before he could articulate what it was he'd meant. _It's never been just you and me. I need it to be just you and me, for once_.

"You always have to push," House diagnosed against his bared neck. Wilson couldn't tell if that was a complaint, an acceptance, or simply a statement of truth. But he had to agree with him, as he pushed House towards the bedroom. Once there, he smiled at the pictures Cuddy had propped around the place, and that was the last time he took his eyes off of House, until they both fell asleep.

He didn't know if it was the rustling of sheets, the wisp of air against his skin, or the light pouring in from the hallway that woke him up. He simply opened his eyes and saw Cuddy, standing beside the bed, resigned affection tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Well?" House grumbled, and Wilson realized that he was holding the bed linen above them, making a space between them.

Wilson watched as Cuddy slipped off her skirt, pulled her top over her head, and climbed over him to squeeze in beside House. Beside him.

"You need a shower," she groused, worming her way beneath the sheets.

"You need better circulation to your feet," House answered.

"You both need to shut up and let me go back to sleep," Wilson contributed, trying not to feel too giddy about this small measure of normality, or at least what passed as normal for the three of them. Bitching and broken bones, free of charge.

It was quiet, all of them wanting this to fix things, all of them knowing that it wouldn't be that easy. But then Cuddy wrapped her arms around House and held him tight, close, and House completed that embrace by reaching out to tug on Wilson's wrist, and Wilson couldn't help but think that just being there with them, wrapped in a cocoon of Egyptian cotton that smelled of semen and sweat and now Cuddy's jasmine vanilla lotion, that this was the closest to alright that any of them would ever get.


	6. Chapter 6

Cuddy sat alone in House's apartment for two hours before she came to the conclusion that neither of them were planning on coming home, that night. She grabbed her coat and keys and headed for her car.

Traffic was light. She couldn't concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time. Tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. Turning the radio on, then off, then on again. News. Checking her reflection in the mirror. Fresh, clean face. Had to pull herself together for meetings, for simply walking down the hall of her hospital and _God damn House_. Why couldn't she just hate him?

Why couldn't she believe him when he said this hadn't been about revenge? What the hell else could it have been?

_Sex. Release. Distraction._

Maybe. Maybe, but he'd had to have known that it would hurt her. But then, she doubted that he'd thought of _her_ at all. If he'd been out to hurt anyone, it would have to be Wilson. House was always punishing him for his (_their_) failures. She's sure she never even crossed his mind. _Bastard_.

But God, he'd confessed, thrown himself at her mercy, told her he loved her, and what was she supposed to do with that? She had a lifetime of promising herself she'd never put up with infidelity. She had years of experience in the _You hurt me, I hurt you_ tug of war of failing relationships, and she'd had enough. She was too old and too tired and…she'd had enough. They, the three of them, were supposed to be _different_. (_But why? Why would you even _think _that_? she asked herself.)

She stared at her house. She'd been parked in the drive for who knows how long, and she hadn't even noticed she'd stopped moving.

Why had she even kept this place? Was it really in hopes that the three of them would move in here, leave the cramped quarters of House's apartment and make a home for the three of them to have a space of their own? Or did she want an escape route, like always? _What the hell was she doing here?_

_God damn House_. His stark confession had broken the dam and now she couldn't stop the thoughts that she's sure were circling long before House's lost weekend. _Wilson should've been the one who cheated. I'd have _expected _that. Wilson should have strayed, and then House would have pushed him out, and then it would have just been the two of us and we'd have been okay_.

But that's not what had happened, and wasn't even close to the truth anymore. Despite the hurt and anger she'd felt when it had become clear that he'd used her in a game only he was knowingly playing, she loved Wilson, now. It was different than what she felt for House. Smaller. But it was there, and she'd miss it if it left her. If _he_ left her.

And now she didn't know if she could stay with them both, after having admitted to herself that, while she loved Wilson, she'd always love House more. Always choose him. Maybe, maybe always forgive him. Maybe.

She got out of her car, and walked inside. Nothing had to be decided right that second, even though it had always been her instinct to rip the Band-Aid off in one swift tear.

Turning on the hall light, she didn't need the soft sound of House's snores to let her know they were in the bedroom; the trail of sneakers, shirts and tie was an obvious roadmap. She slipped out of her heels, hoping to catch them both asleep before deciding on whether she needed to wake them up and figure out just what the hell they were supposed to do now.

House woke up the minute she walked in the room. She couldn't look him in the eye, and instead haltingly approached the side of the bed where Wilson was sleeping.

"He looks happy," she whispered, finally meeting House's gaze.

"The universe always settles the score," he shrugged, but he was acting nervous as he inched away from Wilson, patted the space he'd just made for her, and then lifted up the duvet in invitation.

_The Golden Rule_, she thought, and she couldn't help but smile as Wilson's eyes scrunched up against the light, blinked open and then widened at the sight of her.

"Well?" House asked, hanging his head as if he actually thought she's say no. How could she say no?

She joined them in her bed, pressed herself between them, and took one more second for a final _God damn House_ before she wrapped her arms around him. Not in forgiveness, but certainly in need.

In the morning, she awoke to House gently nipping at her mouth, his tongue slipping between her sleep-relaxed lips. Normally, this is when she'd pull away, moaning about morning breath and _for God's sake, can't we brush our teeth first_, but something was different. His eyes were open. She met his stare, then looked away, taking in the sight of House gently stroking Wilson into hardness with one hand, the feel of him smoothing back her hair with the other, and she closed her eyes to let herself focus on that. On him. His long fingers ran through her hair, massaging her scalp, getting tangled in curls and setting themselves free as painlessly as possible. His lips felt chapped, his whiskers sharp, tongue perfect. Then he pulled back to babble against her searching mouth: "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_."

Her hands were pinned between his chest and hers, so all she could do was try to pull him closer, but he was already retreating. She opened her eyes.

There was a moment of complete silence, as she and Wilson stared at House, waiting for him to make his move. She finally recognized that that was what she'd been waiting for, for months.

And then House was pulling Wilson towards Cuddy, and pushing himself away from them, and it was as if he was giving each of them to the other, as if that was the best, or all, he could do. As if he actually thought that's what they _wanted_.

"Idiot," she growled, and even as she wrapped her legs around Wilson to anchor him to her, she tugged hard on House's wrist, pulling him off balance. He collapsed on top of them and there was a brief tangle of limbs and a few hisses of pain and shock, and it reminded her of the first time, only she _knew_ she loved them, now, instead of simply hoping that she would in time. Legs still holding Wilson against her, she yanked on House's hair until he grudgingly shimmied his way up to greet her, and finally, _finally_, gave her back his kiss.

Wilson was rubbing against her, and she loosened her grip so he had just enough room to slip off her panties and slip in to her, and she sighed at the feeling, and House moaned at the sight, and then there was silence again as Wilson and House stared at each other.

"Do you want -?" Wilson murmured, stopping mid-question but nodding towards the nightstand, where she assumed they'd found the lube the night before.

She could tell that House was just as shocked by the offer as she was, and maybe more than a little terrified by what it could mean.

"No," he finally answered. "Thanks," he added a beat later, a small smile turning his face into the version of him she loved best. "I'm happy where I am. Just…let me watch you, together."

Wilson nodded, and moved against her, and House pulled his face away from hers so he could study the way they moved together, but Cuddy kept her hand on him, reaching for whatever part of him he'd generously left in reach. Smooth skin just below the eye. Soft curls at the nape of his neck. Long throat, hard shoulders, wiry line of hair snaking down the center of his chest. She'd have kept going, but he caught her dancing fingers in his own, brought them to his lips, and slowly inched his body closer to theirs. Once he was nestled against her side, she could finally focus on Wilson, how he'd held himself still as he waited for House to settle against them. How he'd braced himself to take the brunt of his own weight, where House had always happily crushed her breathless. How he looked like he was holding in a laugh, and how he wasn't so stingy with the smiles he was throwing in House's direction, in between the kisses he was throwing in hers.

It wasn't perfect. But it _felt_ perfect. It felt real, and complicated, and like an accident waiting to happen. It felt safe. It felt like them. All she could do was hope that they'd all remember what it was they each found in this (_their_) moment that was so worth fighting for.


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue

Cuddy had spent half the afternoon flitting around the university's ballroom, checking on details that she'd hired more capable people to handle. House would call her every five minutes, quizzing her on the bar's stock, on the dealers' qualifications, on the health status of the caterers, on the competence of the band. She'd have stopped taking his calls hours ago, but in between demands for top shelf scotch and requests that she document any runny noses and weeping sores on the wait staff for future civil suits, he'd throw in an innocent, "So, when you said no more sex if I fired another fellow…you were just joshin' me, right?"

Once he'd annoyed her enough, for a few minutes at least, House would hang up on her, glower at his remaining fellow (who just couldn't seem to understand that, no, it wasn't all just an act and, NO, he wasn't interested in attending next month's conference on the deleterious effects of iPods and cell phones), and then hassle some of the oncology nurses just to let Wilson know how bored he really was. Then it was back to calling Cuddy and back to glowering and it was a nice, warm cycle of killing time until his big date.

It would have made sense to carpool with Wilson to the charity function, and just meet Cuddy there, but she'd insisted on coming home to pick them up.

"What is this, a reenactment of your junior prom?" House had asked her. "Because I can totally get behind a game of poppin' the cheerleader's cherry, but I'd need reassurances that you're going to put out at the end of the night. Some sort of down payment. I accept cash, checks, major credit cards, and blow jobs."

"I just want to make sure you get there," Cuddy bitched.

"Please. There's free booze and gambling, and Wilson's here to drag me kicking and screaming. What more can a man possibly need?"

"You do know you have to _pay_ to play, right?"

"Bring Wilson's wallet. Check."

For all he had teased her, House was looking forward to this evening out. Hell, he'd admit to being almost _excited_, like a cheerleader the night before…_I really need some fresh metaphors_. Like a fat guy at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Like a drug addict with an all-access pass to the pharmacy. Like a man hearing from James Wilson:

"God, you look so fuckable in that tuxedo."

"So you've said," House smirked, checking the knot of his tie in the closet mirror.

"Hey, the last time I saw you in a tux, I said you looked _good_," Wilson reminded him, batting his fingers away from the bow tie and then smoothing out the seams of his jacket.

"Still clinging to the delusion that you were one hundred percent straight until that night nine months ago when, whoops, you tripped and your dick landed in my ass, I see."

"Could you _be_ any more disgusting?"

"Aww, Jimmy, you _know_ I can," House beamed.

"Don't encourage him," Cuddy warned, interrupting House's nonverbal demonstration on just how fuckable _Wilson_ looked in a tux.

"Curse you and your ninja-like stealth," House moaned, though part of that sound was due to the sight of Lisa Cuddy in the tightest red dress House had ever seen.

"Where are the hooker boots?"

"Wilson and I share custody and it's his turn to wear them," she answered, smiling when House's eyes, predictably, rolled back into his skull.

"That's it. Everyone: clothes off NOW."

"No time," Wilson smirked. "You'll just have to live with the anticipation."

"How about a little Chinese fire drill with the panties? I promise I'll behave at this stupid fundraiser if I have the mental images of you in Cuddy's thong and her in _your_ tighty whities keeping me company all night."

"Everyone moves in a Chinese fire drill," Wilson reminded him. "What are _you_ going to contribute to the party?"

"Well, I'm going commando, so I'm afraid I'll have to abstain."

"You're _not_!" Cuddy and Wilson both gasped, eyes drifting instinctively down towards House's crotch.

"Only one way to find out," he answered, wagging his eyebrows.

The three of them eventually made it to the ballroom, where House immediately stomped off to the bar to have a drink, leaving Wilson to buy them all some chips for the poker tables and Cuddy to mingle with the prospective donors.

"Nice place," House grunted when he joined Wilson ten minutes later. Holding the annual Black Tie Affair at the ballroom rather than in the clinic after hours meant there was room for more food, booze, and even a live band. It was only an hour into the event and some people were either drunk or comfortable enough to start dancing near the stage, while the poker tourney was in full swing.

"She looks good," House added, nodding towards Cuddy. She was talking to some rich blowhard, who she couldn't _possibly_ like enough to justify that smile, that gorgeous laugh, but she did look happy and, when she glanced over at them and her smile brightened just so much, House couldn't help feeling a surge of warmth and…gratefulness, at the thought that he might be some small part of why she was glowing.

"We should go rescue her from that dillweed," he grumbled, grumbling being his top-secret code for "_don't bust my balls about that fleeting look of happiness you may or may not have seen just now, Wilson._"

"Leave her alone, House. She's in her element," Wilson nagged, trying to steer them both towards the nearest poker table.

"You should go dance with her or something."

"I hardly think that would be appropriate."

"I hardly give a crap. And I'm not talking about airing our dirty laundry. Nothing wrong with a thrice-divorcee giving his single and hot boss a test drive on the dance floor."

"What about you?" Wilson asked, and House couldn't tell if he was nervous about leaving him out or about putting himself and Cuddy on display.

"Right. Give me a top hat and tails and I'm Fred Astaire. Already got the cane," House answered, holding up his fancy (cough-_PIMP-_cough) cane, as if Wilson needed the reminder. "I'm serious. Go dance with her. You know I like to watch."

The leer is what did it, and minutes later, House was leaning against the bar and watching Wilson leading Cuddy across the dance floor. And every which way they twirled, one of them would always be smiling at him over the other's shoulder. _No subtlety_, he thought, but it wasn't something he'd call them on.

Hours later, they were back in the kitchen of Cuddy's (_their_) house, drinking water or setting up the coffee machine for the morning's first brew or laying out a baffling regimen of daily vitamins. Ties were undone, shoes abandoned at the door, sleeves rolled up and stockings stripped off. Not in the sexy _come hither_ _and do me_ way, but in the _God, these things itch and I'm. So. Hot._ way. Wilson was telling him about a new diner on Main that he wanted to try. Cuddy was weeping over her stolen yogurt. He was meeting his dish quota for the month, rinsing out that morning's breakfast bowls.

Then, he felt Cuddy's arms wrap around him, and saw Wilson reach to turn off the sink tap.

He loved their sneak attacks best.

"We didn't get to dance with you" Cuddy murmured against the back of his shirt, and he briefly wondered how much lipstick and eyeliner she'd leave in her wake. Then she started swaying, resorting to using all her weight to move him with her, one bare foot lifting off the ground at a time, providing an accompanying slap of skin against tile. He was sure she looked ridiculous, but he felt safe enough and good enough to smile, to trust her enough to lean back into her embrace, before finally he had to turn around.

"Hands in the air," he instructed, and she and Wilson both jumped back in alarm, sure that this was a replay of the water fight they'd had the week before, when, in an effort to sell washing dishes as _fun_, they'd shown off the hose they'd had installed in the kitchen sink.

House grinned and, grabbing one of Cuddy's hands in his own, caressed her lower back and began leading her into a twirl. Wilson stepped back to give them room, chuckling as he watched House twirl Cuddy over and over again until she pleaded, laughing, for House to stop.

"Come on, big boy," House teased, cajoling Wilson into taking a spin. Once, twice, and then he called uncle.

Someone yawned. Someone suggested pancakes for breakfast. Someone said _time for bed_.

"Great," House smiled. "Wilson can work on his dip. Unless you want to practice the basket hold."

"I…can't even tell anymore if you're _trying_ to be dirty, or if you just come by it honestly," Wilson complained.

"Only one way to find out."

The End.


End file.
